


Forgive and Forget

by Marty (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drunkenness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Marty





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is John Egbert and you're beginning to regret letting Dave get quite _this_ smashed at Rose's Christmas party. You walk into your house, Dave stumbling in behind you and locking the door, and you just barely catch him as he trips over his own two feet.

"You're so wonderful, John," he slurs, arms wrapping around your neck as he practically hangs off of you. "You're wonderfuuuul." He laughs, sounding exhausted and drunk, and you guide him to the couch, figuring that getting him out of his coat or gloves or hat or anything he's got on is a losing battle you don't feel like fighting. "D'you hear what I said? I said- I said you're wonderful," he repeats, "You're wonderful and I luh- love you, John." He's still hanging off of you and he pulls you down so you're closer to him, pressing his mouth to yours in a sloppy kiss.

"I love you, too, Dave," you say, giving him a push. He doesn't let go, only pulls you closer to him.

"Lay with me, c'mon. Take your coat off and- and come cuddle with me, I love you."

You definitely regret letting him get this drunk, but you do as he asks. "You have to let me go so I can hang up my coat," you say in a voice that sounds gentle and almost a little bit like you're talking to a small child. "Let me hang your coat up, too."

He does let you go, and he rolls onto his stomach and wiggles his way out of his coat, letting you hang up both the coats while he lays on the couch, face-down. You get his boots off, too, making a face at the fact that he's already tracked dirty snow into your living room, and you'll have to clean it up in the morning. When you return to him, he's got his hat and gloves off and they're on the coffee table, but he's still laying with his face pressed into the couch cushion.

"Dave," you say, giving his shoulder a little shake. He rolls over, staring at you through his shades. You remove them—he's probably just a little bit too intoxicated to remove them himself without poking an eye out—and brush his hair back from his eyes, then put his shades on the table with his hat and gloves. "Dave, I'm going to bed, and you should sleep this off, alright? You're really drunk."

"No," he says, taking your hand in his, pulling you down to look him right in the eyes. "Lay with me, stay here, on the couch. Don't go nowhere." He looks as though he's almost upset at the idea that you might sleep in your own bed without him, so you do as he asks, climbing over him to lay beside him on the couch.

"Alright, alright. Go to sleep, now."

"No," he says again, pressing his mouth against yours and wrapping his arms around your waist, giving your ass a squeeze. "I love you, John, love you so much." A pause for him to kiss you again. "Mine, you're all mine, 'n nothin's gonna change that."

"I love you too, I really do, but you're- you're really drunk right now and I really think you need to get some sleep."

His hands are clumsy as they explore your body and you're pushing them away, only for him to bring them back in a different spot. He's all over you and you're quietly trying to convince him that it's better if you go to sleep in your bed and he sleeps this off on the couch, but he's just resisting you and kissing you and telling you you're all his, over and over again.

"Dave. Stop." He shakes his head, then presses his lips against yours again and rocks you back and forth as best he can with the position you're in, as if you can be pacified by this. "No, I'm serious here, please. Stop it, and let me go to bed." There's an edge in your voice that you didn't mean to use, but he still isn't getting the point, and he shakes his head again, pressing his mouth to your neck and sucking, licking, as his hands grope at your ass. You give him another shove, rougher this time, and he shoves back, just as hard. "Dave, please."

You find yourself breathing heavily without meaning to as his fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, and he seems to mistake this for arousal. "Mmm, love you so much," he whispers as his hand finds the waistband of your boxers, sliding past the elastic material to grip your dick. You aren't hard by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"No, Dave, stop. Please stop." He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, then presses his mouth flush against yours, tongue making its way past your lips and tasting vaguely like alcohol with Dave mixed in. Your hands are on his neck, trying to shove him off of you without choking him, and he pulls away after a moment.

"Don'tcha love me, too?" His voice sounds strained, almost like the fact that you didn't remind him that you loved him too was painful for him. "I love you, you're so perfect, and you're wonderful, and you're so beautiful, and—" He stops and looks at you, meets your eyes with his, seems to notice for the first time that you're tearing up. "No, baby, don't cry," he says, kissing the corners of your eyes and bringing his free hand to pet your hair as the other hand continues to work at your dick. "Don't cry, y'ain't pretty when you cry, I love you, don't, don't cry." You force back your tears, taking a deep breath.

"Alright, okay. Dave, you're really drunk right now. I- I need you to stop, please." You give him a little shove, hoping to prompt him to get his hands off of you. He removes his hand from your boxers, bringing it up to cup your cheek as he leans in again to kiss you.

"John, I love you so much," he says, voice sounding small and almost desperate. Both hands cup your cheeks and he kisses you, over and over again.

"Okay, okay, I understand that. I love you, too. Please, just. Let go of me."

Rather than letting you go, his arms wrap around your neck, and he's rutting against you, holding you close. "I love you," he says again, "You're all mine." His hips press against yours and you put your hands on his sides, push him back a little bit, hold him away from you.

"Let me go."

"No, no, you're mine," he says, words slurred and sounding more and more like a child's by the minute. You give him a rough shove, your patience growing short, and you're surprised when he pulls back and smacks you across the face, then grabs you by the front of your shirt with both hands, hard enough to stretch the material. "You're _mine_ ," he says, voice low and angry.

You are mostly in shock.

Dave hit you.

You should have stopped him from drinking, because him acting like this when he's _this_ drunk isn't something entirely new. When he slips both hands back into your jeans and starts to work at your still-soft dick, you let out what almost sounds like a defeated little whine as you bring your own hand up to touch the spot on your cheek that stings, that you're sure is red, that you're sure will bruise.

The tears are back in your eyes but you wipe at them with your sleeve, ignoring the ache of your cheek when your arm brushes against it too hard.

"I love you," he says, then he says it again, and again, as he starts to tug on your jeans and boxers. You hold them up around your waist, whispering a stream of, _please don't, Dave, stop, please, I love you, stop, stop, stop, no, stop, stop, no, no, no,_ as he continues to kiss you, entirely oblivious the fact that you want him to stop, that you've wanted him to stop since he started. He gives you a rough shove against the back of the couch, and you let go of your jeans, letting out a choked sob as he discards your lower clothing on the floor. This time, he either misses the fact that you're crying or he ignores it.

It isn't long before his pants are gone, too, but not before he reaches into a pocket and retrieves a small bottle of lube. You choke back a little gasp, and fold your arms over your chest, curling up a little bit, the only words out of your mouth being, 'stop,' and 'no,' at this point.

He wastes no time, coating two fingers in what isn't nearly enough lube, pressing them both into you immediately, making you cry out and utter another stream of _Dave, stop, please stop, don't do this_ between sobs.

"I want you to know," he says, then he pauses. "Want you to know how much I love you, want you to know... How important you are to me, John. I love you."

He presses his third finger into you, bringing his free hand up to pet your hair, whispering more about how much he loves you, about how much you mean to him. It only takes him a moment to remove his fingers and fumble around with the lube, and you don't see what he does next because you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to clear your vision, but you hear it—lube cap snapping open, the sound of him stroking himself, covering himself with lube. You don't know if he's using enough or not, and then he pushes into you. It burns, aches, and he's pushing all the way in before pausing, then he's pulling out and his thrusts are shallow, quick, and erratic. He leans down and presses his lips just below your ear just as he begins to thrust harder, going deeper into you.

"John, I love you, you mean so much to me, you're my everything," he says, every word coming out slow, like he's got a mouthful of cotton and he has to work to speak around it. "You're so beautiful and perfect and I love you." He's pounding into you, and you're still pushing on his chest, wishing with all your heart that he'd get off of you, that he'd just be done with this and roll over and get some fucking sleep and let you cry until you couldn't anymore.

His hands move to your hips, pulling you against him as his thrusts become rougher, more desperate, and then he groans your name when he comes, practically collapsing against you and wrapping his arms around your waist, still inside you. Then, he sits back up, wrapping a hand around your half-hard dick. You let out another choked sob as he starts to jerk you off, being anything but gentle about it, his hips still against yours.

You try your hardest to finish, because maybe if you do, he'll be finished. Go to sleep. Leave you alone. His hand is sloppy and he's still very much drunk and your mind is still screaming that you don't want this, but you try to force that all away, push it to the back of your mind, force yourself into arousal. Think sexy thoughts.

You thrust into his hand, and, eventually, because nothing else is working, settle for faking moans, arching your hips up, and sobbing his name. If someone had ever told you that you'd be faking an orgasm to get Dave to stop touching you, you would have laughed in their face. It seems to have worked, though, and his hand moves to cup your cheek again, and he leans in to kiss you again, telling you how much he loves you, finally pulling out of you and collapsing beside you.

"I love you, John," he says, kissing you over and over again.

It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and you lay there, wrapped in his arms, trying to do the same.

It takes you hours longer than it took him, and you find yourself waking up more than once through the night.

Your name is John Egbert, and you hate the way it sounds, even in your mind, but you've been raped by your boyfriend. You love him, you love him more than anything, but you're horrified that this has happened, and you don't know what you're going to say to him in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is still John Egbert, and you're trying to forget that last night ever happened. You wake up long before Dave, your face still aching where Dave smacked you. He's still passed out beside you, arms wrapped around you protectively in a hug that might have been sweet under different circumstances. You find that, after you fell asleep, you curled up against him, face in his chest, and his shirt is rather wet with your tears. You shuffle backwards a little, and look at him.

You watch him for a while. He sleeps like a baby after he gets drunk, and the thought makes you feel sick. Sick like you might throw up on him. So you start to get up.

As soon as you move in his arms, he groans in his sleep, shifts, and opens his eyes to look at you, smiling for about half a second before his eyes focus on the spot that you assume is black and blue.

"Who hit you last night?"

"You did."

You aren't surprised that he doesn't remember, and you look away from him as you shrink back into the couch, feeling a little bit trapped. He sits up, moving to face you so that you can stay laying down, but he can still meet your eyes.

"Bullshit," he says with a lighthearted little laugh, moving his hand to brush against your cheek gently. You wince at the feeling, not quite an ache but more like a vaguely painful tingle. "Seriously, who did that?" He takes a moment, like he's trying to remember all the events of last night. "When would I have..."

"After we got home, we were... Laying on the couch."

"John," he whispers, voice almost faltering as he pulls his hand back from your face, and he grabs a handful of couch cushion next to you, almost like he might float away if he doesn't hold onto something. The look on his face tells you that yes, he at least remembers hitting you.

You sit up, wincing at the pain in your lower back. Sleeping on the couch certainly didn't do you any good, and being so tense all night did you even less. He stands, almost falling backwards for a moment. He's got one hell of a killer hangover. He turns around, though, leaning down and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you up to stand with him and being so, so gentle. The thought of last night creeps into your mind again, and you almost flinch away from his featherlight touches along your sides, regretting it as soon as you see the look on his face.

"Dave, it's- it's fine," you say, despite the fact that it kind of isn't. You wonder if he remembers anything beyond hitting you, or if he even really remembers doing that, but you don't want to ask him. If he doesn't remember, it's easy enough for you not to bring it up. To put it behind you. Forget about it. "I'm just gonna jump in the tub and chill out a little bit."

"I'm coming in with you," he says, his voice barely audible.

You don't argue with him, don't try to convince him out of coming with you, just lead the way up the stairs and down the hall and into the bathroom. You're standing there in just your shirt, and he moves you aside just a little bit, pushing past you so he can turn on the hot water tap.

"John," he says, voice faltering just a little bit again. He puts the plug in the tub and steps back over to you, pulling your glasses off to put them on the counter, pulling your shirt up over your head to drop it on the floor and guide you into the tub. "John, I'm so sorry," he whispers, kneeling down beside the bathtub and running his fingers through your hair.

You feel your lip tremble, just a little, because the way he's reacting, even just to knowing that he hit you, absolutely breaks your heart and you don't think you've seen him feel this bad about something in a _long_ time.

When he looks at you, it's almost alarming how upset he looks, like he's about to cry.

"Can I get in with you?" His voice shakes, and you nod, so he strips his shirt off and climbs into the tub with you, legs tangled with yours as he slides close and wraps his arms around you, hands on your back and pulling you against him in a way that feels almost protective.

"Fuck," he whimpers, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I love you. I swear I didn't..." He pauses, a little like he's trying to figure out what to say.

"You didn't mean it?"

It takes him a moment to speak again. "That makes me sound even worse. God. Fuck. I'm grade A white trash, aren't I?"

"No, you... You were drunk," you whisper, and he sniffles, pressing his face harder against your shoulder.

"And what else did I do? 'When I was drunk'?" You hesitate, and he pulls away from you, sliding away a little bit. "I _did_ do something else, you're fucking kidding me."

"You were drunk," you say again, and this makes him throw his hands up in the air.

"And that makes it okay? What did I do?"

You don't know how to tell him what he did, and you wish he'd remember on his own. "Dave, you- I... Um. Look, okay, keep in mind that you were _really_ drunk, okay?"

"Go on."

"You, um. Okay, you hit me and then you- you..."

"Please, John, just... Tell me. Not knowing is way worse."

"F... fucked me."

The look on his face makes you want to be sick, and you bring your hands up to wrap around his neck, to pull him to you, but he shoves you off, mouth gaping open in what you assume is probably horror.

"I- John. Please know that if this is a prank I will fucki—"

"It's not a prank," you say, cutting off his threat.

"You're serious."

"Yes, but I... I just wanna put it behind us, you were drunk, and I know you wouldn't ever do anything like that if you weren't completely smashed, and I'm not- I'm not angry with you, Dave."

"And that makes it that much worse, John. I-I... You..." He's trying to spit out half-formed thoughts, trying to convince you that he's as horrible as he probably thinks he is. "Don't fucking rationalize this with 'you were drunk,' or 'you didn't mean it,' because those are the worst possible excuses you could ever make and I don't deserve excuses, ever. I- fuck." You bring a hand up to his hair, running your fingers through short, blond strands and attempting to calm him down. He backs off a little, though, bats your hand away, looks you in the eyes. "I'm gonna... Get out of the tub."

"Are you alright, Dave?"

"Oh, yes, I'm just fucking peachy. I drunkenly hit and then raped my boyfriend, no big deal, and his mood seems to be soaring above the goddamn clouds, he's so happy about it. Whyever wouldn't I be _alright_?"

You flinch at the anger in his tone, even though you know he isn't really angry at you, and bring your hands back up to rest on the back of his head. "Dave—"

"No," he says, though he doesn't force your hands off of him. "Don't start with this, I don't want your excuses. Why aren't you angry? I—you know what I did. I'm supposed to- to protect you from this kind of thing. I'm not supposed to be the one who makes it happen. I'm such an idiot."

You aren't sure what to say to him anymore. You haven't seen Dave like this in a long time. You aren't sure if 'a long time' covers it—you aren't sure if you've _ever_ seen Dave looking this upset, and he's upset because he hurt you while he was drunk, and you want to tell him it's alright, that it's fine, that you know he was just drunk, and that you know he would never have done anything like that if he were sober, but you know that nothing you say will help, so you just wrap your arms around his neck and pull him against you, legs wrapping around his waist as you shoosh him when he tries to pull away from you.

"Dave, I'm okay, aren't I?"

"You have a bruise in the shape of my hand on the side of your face, and I'm not so sure you're totally okay if you're _fine with the fact that I_ —"

"How many bruises did you give me from shoving me off the bed when we were younger?"

"That's _beyond_ different."

"Regardless, I'm okay, aren't I?" Your tone sounds like you're speaking to a child again, even though you don't mean for it to.

"No."

"Dave. Yes, I am. I'm not dead, and I'm not seriously injured, and everything's alright."

"I raped you."

You feel your chest tighten uncomfortably when he says it, your heart beating too fast and your stomach tying itself into uneasy little knots because you know he's right, and you have no response for him.

"I... I know," you say, running your fingers through his hair, sliding closer to him and holding him against you. He stiffens, hands resting on your shoulders, holding you away from him.

He looks at you, but doesn't meet your eyes. He's focused on the bruise on your face, and he brings a hand up to trace the mark with his thumb. "I'm so sorry," he says again, like you'll forget that he didn't mean it if he doesn't keep reminding you.

You lay back in the tub, eyes closing as his hand follows you, thumb gently pressing into the bruise on your face in a way that almost hurts. You must make a face because his hand is off of you in a second, and he's leaning over you, pressing a little kiss just below where you're pretty sure the black-and-blue ends. "I'm sorry." His shoulders shake and you don't miss the tears in the corners of his eyes as you pull him into your arms, letting him collapse on top of you, ignoring the way warm water splashes over the edge of the bathtub and onto the bathmat. You shush him, pressing your lips to his forehead. He apologizes again, and again, over and over, unfaltering, a stream of words coming out of his mouth against your skin.

"Dave, Dave, Dave," you whisper, putting a hand over his mouth. "Shh. Shh, shh. Please stop apologizing. I- It's fine, alright? It isn't like... It isn't like you got drunk with the intention of doing something like that, and I—"

"Stop making excuses for me, please stop. Please." It feels like his whole body is shivering, as if he's cold, and you wrap your arms around him tighter. "I'm awful," he whispers, his voice small, almost inaudible.

You sit up, sitting him up with you, and brush his hair from his eyes, forcing him into looking at you. You swear you see his lip quiver just a little, and you kiss him, then reach behind him, pulling the plug from the tub and waiting for the water to drain before standing and pulling him to stand with you. He looks absolutely miserable, and you take the towel from the rack, the red one, and wrap it around his shoulders, wrapping your arms around him and managing to get the towel around your shoulders, too. He pulls away from you, hugging the towel close to himself.

"Don't forgive me," he says, "Please don't forgive me, don't tell me it's _okay_." You shake your head and wrap your arms around his waist again, walking backwards and pulling him with you. You lead him out of the bathroom, into the hallway, and down the hallway into your bedroom, shaking your head when he asks you if you want him to leave. You pull him onto the bed, guide him until his head is resting on the pillow beside yours, wrap your arms around him, pull him close.

"Dave," you say, hand moving down his side to rest on his hip, other hand moving up to cup his cheek. You lean in, kiss him again, and he scoots closer to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight as he kisses you, his fingers rubbing little circles into your lower back.

"I'm so sorry." He pulls away and turns his head, refusing to make eye contact.

"Dave, hey, look at me." You wait until he does, then continue to speak. "It's in the past, and we can forget about it. You were really, really drunk last night, and I already _know_ you wouldn't ever do anything like that if you were... Well, not drunk." He stays quiet, just keeps looking at you. "Please. Let's put it in the past and forget it ever happened."

There's a long silence where he just seems to search your face—for what, you aren't sure—and then he shuts his eyes.

"Alright," he says, almost hesitantly. "Yeah, okay. It's- it's in the past. We're just gonna let it go."

"I love you," you whisper, leaning your forehead against his and tangling your legs with his, unable to stop the little smile you get on your face when he presses chronically cold toes against your shins and it almost physically warms you to see him crack a little smile, too.

"I love you too," he says, pressing his lips against yours. "I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing, Dave."

"I'm still sorry."

"I'll always love you."

"I'll try not to push the limits of that any further."

You let out a little laugh and scoot closer, and you're pretty sure you couldn't get closer to Dave if you were somehow fused to him, and he wraps the towel around your shoulders and you kiss him again.

"I think it's been a long day already," you say, your lips brushing against his when you speak.

"Yeah," he says, "Naptime?"

You nod, and he brings a hand up to pet your hair, letting you fall asleep before he stops and goes to sleep himself.

You hope he forgives you for forgiving him.


End file.
